


Child's Play

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark!Mycroft, Explicit Rape, Forced Orgasms, Fuck Or Die, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:12:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Given a choice between Sherlock's life or further desecrating his already tarnished psyche, John knows it's not much of a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131817337#t131817337
> 
> I wrote this a while ago and forgot about it! Sorry OP. -_- I just need to polish up the other three parts.

Mycroft Holmes sipped unhurriedly at his tea whilst eyeing his laptop, scrolling through the numerous and diverse images –though always of the same two subjects– that he'd received recently, courtesy of the operatives he'd stationed around Baker St. He frowned infinitesimally, brows barely contracting. He didn’t need to watch any live footage to read the progressively strengthening bond that was forming between the two men depicted there. He'd been over to 221B enough times to witness it first-hand.

He set down his tea with a tiny  _clink_ and propped his elbows on the arms of his chair, quelling a sudden upsurge of emotion with practised ease. He laced his fingers together beneath his chin and brooded for a while on the good doctor, Mr. John Hamish Watson. Wounded soldier, seemingly dedicated friend, grouchy or tender when the moment called for it, so bluntly honest that his company almost wasn’t dull, and a not-so-secret lover of what Sherlock had termed “the game”.

Those things considered all together, maybe it wasn't strange that Sherlock had been drawn to him. What _was_ odd, at least in Mycroft's opinion, was that Sherlock seemed to have developed a heart. Worse still, it appeared that it belonged in John Watson's pocket.

An unfamiliar rage pooled in Mycroft's gut as he regarded the images again, emotions creeping through his façade of inner calm like water rushing through a sieve. It didn’t show on his face, of course, but it was disconcerting nevertheless.

Mycroft realized quite abruptly that he absolutely despised the man. He never should have encouraged him to stay with Sherlock. He'd been sure Mr. Watson would last a mere two weeks or so before moving on; perhaps a month at most. His little brother only happened to be the most insufferable person currently inhabiting Britain, after all. Defying all statistical probabilities, Mycroft's assumption had proven to be incorrect and Watson had stuck around for well over a year. Now, the situation was beginning to get out of hand.

He would have disliked Watson anyway, for the simple fact that he followed his silly little brother around like a lost puppy. Chasing, chasing, chasing. So  _deliciously_ desperate to retain Sherlock’s favour even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself. _So_ eager to have a bigger part to play in this small, convoluted planet of theirs. Mycroft smiled thinly over his fingers without a veritable trace of amusement. The shocking matter for him was that Sherlock couldn’t seem to discern what a grovelling, inept fool his new partner was… aside from his admittedly excellent marksmanship skills. The amount of trust he placed in the man was immensely astonishing.

No one had ever cared for Sherlock as Mycroft did, not even their parents, he was certain. He was always the one looking out for his baby brother; always there to catch him if he fell, as he so often did — yet, Mycroft was loathed, thought of as Sherlock’s arch-enemy!

Over the years he’d tolerated the rudeness, the insults, the complete disdain Sherlock felt for him despite his superior skill-set. Since the arrival of John Watson in his life, Sherlock had become progressively more unbearable, and Mycroft found he wasn't so patient as he'd once been. Perhaps it was his age on top of everything else, but...

He relinquished the tenebrous thoughts after glancing at his watch and realizing it was almost five. Time to play more games with he and his colleagues newly acquired criminal mastermind, Mr. Moriarty. He stood, closed his laptop with a quick flick of his wrist, drained the dregs of of his tea and walked out the door, the seeds of jealousy blossoming quickly into something he wasn't prepared to pay particular attention to just yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **This weekend my mom surprise visited me and on Sunday my friend begged me to her help move. -__- Real life's a bitch! Thus, I present to you, chapter two a bit later than planned. Won't be returning to Mycroft's POV until chapter four.**  
> 

John’s return to lucidity was excruciatingly slow. Vague memories came swirling back to him of crossing a road and making a beeline for the cinema, intent upon nothing more taxing than purchasing a pair of tickets. Now he was lolling across several uncomfortable car seats, face smushed against the tough fabric with the scent of leather filling his nostrils. Heavy, black fabric had been passed across his eyes and knotted tightly at the back of his head, biting into his temples. He could feel his heartbeat resonating in them, but he couldn't speak, mouth dust-dry. Whatever fear he felt was as dull and sluggish as his useless limbs.

Then there were dragging hands under his armpits, yanking him from the car and settling him on unsteady feet. They didn't say anything even to each other, just began walking him. Multiple pairs of shoes were tapping smartly on what sounded like concrete. Firm hands gripped his biceps on either side, as they guided him to some unknown destination while he struggled to keep pace, stumbling over his own feet.

 His breathing grew increasingly ragged, with every passing minute as whatever drug they’d given him began vacating his mind and body. As a modicum of alertness returned to him, so did panic.

 John cursed himself for waving off Sherlock's earlier suggestion of purchasing the tickets for his date online. Perhaps he would have done, if Sherlock hadn't been donning safety goggles and an orange hazmat suit while making the suggestion. Eye-watering fumes had been wafting from the kitchen sink. Staying in the flat one second longer had been inconceivable at the time. When _Sherlock_ bothered wearing extensive protective gear, he knew things were serious. John cursed himself again.

 It had to Moriarty that had caught him, John mused. He'd been much too quiet lately. He must have been lying in wait for his chance to strike.

 John recalled their last meeting with a shudder; the weight of explosives strapped to his chest, blue ripples of light reflected from the pool water drifting across Sherlock's dismayed face, Moriarty's jubilant voice crowing instructions in his ear.

 _STOP!_ he commanded himself harshly, when he realised he was on the verge of hyperventilating. He measured his breathing as he desperately attempted t o hold the tatters of his calm together. He thought (though he’d never admit it aloud) to himself: _Th_ _ink like Sherlock. What would Sherlock deduce from this situation?_

Ummm…. Well, his hands weren’t bound… That _had_ to be a good sign, right? Maybe. What else? What else? Echoes! The footsteps were slightly echoing which indicated a fair amount of space. The air was quite stagnant and dry, not even a puff from an air conditioner… That, unfortunately, only caused him to remember his previous kidnapping with more clarity. Before he had a chance to crack up, however, he caught a whiff of cologne from the man walking ahead of him. He halted in his tracks, mouth gaping in outrage.

“You!” he gasped out before receiving a sharp nudge between his shoulder blades. He gritted his teeth and continued walking, fear morphing rapidly into blistering rage.

They walked down a flight of stairs, through several more corridors, then down another set of steps. Now there was a distinct smell of chemicals in the air… bleach was definitely prominent among them, and other products he couldn’t identify with only his nose.

There was the slightest creak of hinges and a gentle rush of air. When he was forced through a doorway his arms were released, but before he could take a swing at someone, brutish pressure was applied to his wounded shoulder. Pain radiated down his arm to his fingertips, flaring jaggedly along his clavicle. With a defeated hiss, he bucked and he plopped onto a chair, knees scraping the edge of a table.

The door closed with a small click and there was the scrape of another chair being pulled out across from him. John gripped the edges of his own seat with sweaty fingers, sitting stiffly upright.

“Can I take this bloody thing off now?” he demanded, voice tight with suppressed anger.

 “Of course, you may.”

 Though John had, implausibly enough, recognised the man's cologne, hearing that familiar voice eased his tension greatly. The lessening fear brought his ire out in full force, however, and he tore the fabric from his eyes and threw it to the floor.

 The light was brighter than he'd been expecting, and he had to blink and squint painfully through the harsh fluorescents for a bit to discern his surroundings (bland concrete walls and floor, bare light fixtures) and the supercilious man seated across from him.

 Mycroft was fingering the handle of his umbrella and observing John quietly, waiting for him to acclimatise to his surroundings. He appeared so elegant, tranquil and incongruous in his expertly tailored suit that John was beginning to think he was hallucinating. What exactly had Sherlock been cooking up in their sink?

 John cleared his parched throat with a deep rumble before speaking, trying to smother his disorientation by pulling on his Doctor Watson exterior. “If you wanted to talk to me this badly, all you had to do was have Anthea fetch me.” John's attempt at levity fell terribly flat.

 Mycroft's head tipped slightly to the left, and though he didn't smile John felt certain that he was amused by something. John's tone or words; perhaps both. It wasn't a reassuring display.

 “This matter doesn't concern her. She would have found it too... distasteful...” Mycroft's own lips curled as if he himself was repulsed.

 John's slackening muscles tightened again and the hairs on his arms rose. “What do you mean by that?” His voice fell hollowly in the space between them and he shifted uncomfortably, causing his chair to squeak..

 “There's something of immense importance we need your help with” Mycroft said leisurely. Though his face was expressive, his eyes were a dark, empty space.

 “Tell me what it is then. Spill it.” John's voice broke embarrassingly and he hacked a few coughs into the crook of his elbow.

 Mycroft smiled in a way that John could only equate with a shark scenting fresh blood, eyes suddenly gleaming. “You are rather uncouth, aren't you?”

 John's shoulders jerked irritably and he grimaced, pushing back his visceral anger with sheer force of will. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he licked his dry lips, refusing to be riled.

 Mycroft exhaled like he was disappointed. “We are aware from the assortment of pornography you favour and from observing you with various partners, that you have... homosexual inclinations.” Mycroft's eyes glinted with something resembling mirth, but more disquieting.

 John flushed hotly all over and he loosed a hiss through his teeth. “You’ve been monitoring my sex life, as well?” He was hardly surprised and deeply annoyed. “That's just _fucking_ brilliant. Bloody fantastic!”

 He realised he was trembling and that Mycroft was regarding him with unmistakable triumph.

 "What has that got to do with this anyhow?” he said with feigned calm, lacing his fingers atop his lap.

 “We've had a prisoner here for several weeks and tried every possible way -within reason- to get him talking. Nothing has worked. What we need you to do is simple; break him.”

 John felt as if he'd been doused in ice water, goose-flesh breaking out all over his skin. “Is this because-”

 “It has nothing to do with the fact that you were in the army,” Mycroft said irritably. “I'm well aware you were never faced with the unpleasant task of interrogation.”

 “Then what do you need me to do?” John asked carefully.

 Mycroft leaned over the table, face set, eyes flinty. His fingers were white-knuckled from clenching his umbrella so hard. “You’re going to fuck him until you both climax. In this building. Today."

 John barked a hysterical laugh. “You are joking.”

 Mycroft's gaze was unwavering. “I am not in the habit of jesting.”

 John's false smile faded. “You’re mad if you think that's within reason,” he said almost too softly to be heard. “I don't care what the bloke's done. That's no way to handle things! Why would you- You want me to r-” The ugly word caught in his throat, refusing to roll off his tongue, and he stuttered into silence.

“I do what I must to defend queen and country,” Mycroft said, with a obscure smile.

 John snorted, fury making his hands tremble. He flexed them in his lap. “Then _you_ do it. Why the hell do you want me involved?”

 Mycroft's eyes slid away from John's and he seemed discomfited. For a split-second it appeared that he was teetering on the edge of answering honestly. Then his gaze slid back to John and he said, “That information is confidential. I'm afraid I don't have the authority to divulge it to you.”

 “Bullshit,” he said, sensing the evasion easily. “This has to be personal.”

 He looked at the tense line of Mycroft's shoulders and the set of his jaw. “This is about Sherlock... Do you think we're shagging? Are you _jealous_?”

 It was just a shot in the dark, but an accurate one. Mycroft's face contorted and he slammed his hand flat on the table. Several heartbeats of silence followed while Mycroft's beet-red visage faded to pink.

 “What're you going to do if I refuse?” John asked defiantly. “Lock me up forever? Kill me?”

 Mycroft fingered the handle of his umbrella, giving John a piercing look. “If you choose not to do as I request... I will personally ensure that Sherlock becomes one of those impossible cases that he so loves to solve. I wish Inspector Lestrade all the luck in the world.” He spoke slowly, clearly savouring the words.

John stared at him, mouth agape, neck prickling at the unexpectedly odious reply. “But he's your brother,” he said gravely. “You look out for him.”

 “Yes, I always have done. But I feel that's been more your task of late. And you _have_ been doing an admirable job.” The naked animosity in his eyes would have caused a more cowardly man to wither in his seat. “I shall repeat myself, once more, and with greater clarity. You will do this or Sherlock _will_ die.”

 “You're fucking insane,” John breathed, horror scraping out his innards and leaving him empty; depleted.

 Mycroft simply stared at him; waiting; eyes boring mercilessly into John's brain. “We both know that's not true. You're hands are plenty filthy already, Dr. Watson. Do you really want to add Sherlock to that mess?”

 Mycroft didn't interrupt the proceeding silence, allowing John to bathe in it, breathe in his options. It could be a bluff; in fact, it _had_ to be. John's mind ran useless circles around that point. It was the only one that even slightly resembled logic. If it wasn't a bluff, what possible angle could he have? What could Mycroft-fucking-Holmes (arguably the most powerful man in England) _possibly_ gain by forcing him to do this? It made no sense whatsoever. John wouldn't do it. He couldn't.

But, Sherlock. John imagined him, still and bloodless, blue eyes devoid of life. A shudder worked it's way down his spine. He couldn't gamble with his life, not one of the few people he truly cared about. How would he live without Sherlock? The very idea was so bleak and lonely that his mind instinctively shied away from it.

 “Yes,” John said, tone bereft, the vocalisation pulled from the depths of his chest. Then again: “Yes.”

 “Good,” Mycroft said briskly, rising from his seat. “Come along then. We haven't much time.”

 John stood, on legs that felt as weak and limps as noodles. His chest felt so constricted that he could hardly draw a full breath, sucking in small bits of oxygen as if through the narrowest of straws.

 When Mycroft gestured him along, John followed obediently; never having felt so utterly helpless.

 They passed many similar doors that led most likely to more interrogation or observation rooms. Most were empty, a scant few occupied. Through cracked doors, John caught glimpses of the occupants -a menagerie of feral animals trapped infinitely in their cages- and looked away hurriedly. Sparks of pain shot through his leg with each step, and for the first time in a long while he wished for his cane.

 At last, Mycroft led him through one last door and halted before the broad plane of two-way glass. Two guards stood on either end, and another stood near the door leading into the room.

Peering inside, John stifled a gasp when found himself staring at the profile of a man that he couldn't fail to recognise. Mycroft stepped forward and rapped his knuckles against the glass. "Mr. Moriarty," he called serenely, "you have a new visitor."

 John felt bile rise in his throat, but forcefully swallowed it back. He glanced at Mycroft, hoping desperately that he would change his mind at the last moment. That perhaps the entire thing was a tasteless joke. Mycroft just lifted his thin eyebrows slightly, and waited. He was the queen of waiting.

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again, regarding the room Moriarty was occupying. No bed, no restraints. But everywhere: _**Sherlock.**_

With a swooping, horrid feeling, John unbuckled his belt and pulled it free from the loops, folding the pliable leather in his hands as he stalked towards the door.


End file.
